


Gathered Here Today

by dashakay



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, F/M, Joctavia, Pre-Canon, tropes ahoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hates weddings. She especially hates family weddings. Most of all, she hates family weddings when she doesn’t have a date.</p><p>Basically, The Expanse as a romantic comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Belter creole words, most courtesy of Nick Farmer and a few I invented, are in italics. There’s a glossary at the end of each chapter.

Octavia opens the message waiting for her in her inbox during lunch break and as soon as she reads the first line, she sighs with exasperation.

 _Jyoti Patel and Damien Alvarez_  
_Cordially invite you to celebrate with them_  
_As they join in the eternal bonds of matrimony_

“Fuck,” she mutters, resisting the overwhelming urge to bang her head on the desk.

“What’s wrong, Muss?” grunts her partner from the adjacent desk.

“Nothing,” she says through clenched teeth.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity _fuck!_

She hates weddings.

She especially hates family weddings.

Most of all, she hates family weddings when she doesn’t have a date.

*

On her way to her parents’ house for dinner, Octavia imagines just how the wedding will go down. She can see the women in glittering and brightly colored dresses and saris—aunties and cousins and various outlying branches of the huge Iyer-Khan-Bouwers-Rashidi-Muss clan. Worst of all, she can hear them.

_All alone tonight, Tavi?_

_Still don’t have a boyfriend,_ ke _?_

_You know why she’s single again, right? Because she’s Star Helix._

_Yeah. No respectable man would date her._ Zakomeng _, busting her own people._

_Poor Tavi. Her marriage barely lasted two years. I heard he was cheating on her from the jump._

_What a_ kaanda _for her parents. She’s not half as pretty as her older sister._

 _Now Layla made a good marriage—Yuri owns half the piroshki stands on the station. She’s rolling in scrip. Did you see her dress?_ Gufovedi. _Had it shipped in from down the well._

_I thought Tavi was supposed to be the smart one._

_Smart won’t get you as far as a pretty face here._

In other words, it will be just like every other family wedding she’s attended in the last year. A total nightmare.

*

Her father flees to the living room to watch Belt League football after dinner but Octavia and her mother stay at the dinner table for tea and biscuits.

Her mother pours her a cup of tea. Octavia braces herself for the maternal assault that’s sure to come by breathing in the fragrant steam of her teacup.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

Her mother tilts her head at her daughter and says, “I wish you’d wear some makeup, _beti._ ”

She forces herself to smile. “I wear it sometimes,” she says.

“You have such a pretty face. Almost as pretty as Leyla’s. You just need some mascara and maybe a nice blush. I could take you shopping next week. There’s a lady at the Grand Concourse who can do a whole makeover for you in just fifteen minutes. She’s a real makeup artist.”

“I’m good. I have plenty of makeup, _Mamang_. I just don’t feel like I need to wear it all the time.” Octavia’s fingers ball into fists. She’d never even consider hitting her mother but she definitely feels like punching _something._

“Are you excited for Jyoti’s wedding? I hear it’s going to be something else. Those Patels, they have so much money. They rented out the whole Green Club.”

“Sounds spectacular,” Octavia says, fighting the desire to roll her eyes.

Her mother sits up straighter. “And who will you be bringing to the wedding? Have you been seeing anyone lately?”

Here it is. Her mother got to the dreaded point much quicker than Octavia had expected. Her stomach rolls over. “Of course I’m seeing someone,” she hears herself say, which is a total lie. She’s been on a strict man diet ever since Faadi took off.

Clapping her hands, her mother exclaims, “Thank all the saints above! It’s about time, Tavi! And who is this lucky man who has ensnared your heart?”

Octavia takes a sip of her tea to stall. Oh, crap. She’s dug quite a hole for herself. Who is she seeing? Who is a plausible candidate? Quick, pick someone, she frantically thinks. Someone, _anyone_. It doesn’t matter.

“Um, his name is…it’s Joe,” she says. “Joe Miller.”

Octavia’s brain immediately begins screaming at her: What the fuck are you doing? _Miller?_ Miller, as in your cranky dickhead partner? MILLER? Why the fuck did you blurt out _his_ name? Miller, of all the six million people living on this rock? What is _wrong_ with you? Have you gone completely nuts?

Her mother smiles, her face softening and suddenly looking much younger. “Tell me all about him. How did you meet him? How long have you been with him? Is he the marrying kind? Does he have money? Is he handsome?”

Well, Mamang, she thinks, he’s at least a decade older than I am and he’s kind of an asshole although he treats me square. He’s divorced like me and he likes to wear this ridiculous hat and he broods a lot and might have a drinking problem. A real dream come true. Meet your new son-in-law! And you thought Yuri was a good catch.

No. Not that won’t do. Tell her something she’d like. Octavia hates disappointing her mother, which is unfortunate since she’s disappointed her almost every day of her life.

“He’s very nice,” Octavia says, stifling a laugh. Nice, _right_. “He’s a cop, too. A very good one.”

The thing about being a good cop—that’s a pretty heavy-duty lie. It’s a good thing she never goes to church anymore or Octavia would have to go to confession for that one.

“I can’t wait to meet him. The wedding will be the perfect occasion!” her mother says, looking pleased with her youngest daughter for the first time in years, her eyes sparkling.

Octavia realizes, with a sinking heart, that somehow, some way, she’s going to have to get Miller to come with her to this wedding. As her date. As her boyfriend, her fake boyfriend. And he’ll have to be pleasant and presentable enough to appease her mother.

Shit. Being tossed out an airlock sounds like sweet, sweet relief compared to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Belter Creole Glossary** (words with asterisks are ones I’ve come up with myself):
> 
>  _Ke_ – forms a yes/no question at the end of a sentence
> 
>  _Zakomeng_ – police officer, cop
> 
>  _*Kaanda_ – scandal (derived from Hindi)
> 
>  _Gufovedi_ – beautiful, pretty
> 
>  _*Beti_ – daughter (derived from Hindi)
> 
>  _*Mamang_ – mom/mommy (derived from French)


	2. Chapter 2

Octavia wakes up the next morning, her head already buzzing with rage. She can’t believe she didn’t stand up to her mother, didn’t say: “Mamang, I’m not seeing anyone and I don’t want to, okay? Faadi hurt me really badly and I don’t trust men right now.” She wishes she’d had that courage in the face of her mother’s obsession with marriage and money and beauty. And she’s angry that even though she’s a thirty-one-year-old woman, her mother still has the power to make her feel like an acne-riddled and awkward teenage girl. 

You’re more than that, she thinks in the shower as she lathers her hair. You’re smart and capable. You’re a good shot and an even better cop. You have a lot of good friends. You make a decent living without having to depend on _Papang’s_ money. You’re no Leyla but you’re pretty enough and could definitely get a date if you wanted to. You just don’t want to and that’s okay. 

Once she’s out of the shower and dressed, she picks up her terminal, fully intending to call her mother and tell her the truth. But she finds she can’t. She just cannot do it. 

She throws the terminal on her bed in disgust. 

* 

She’s a little bit of a mess that day at work. Octavia feels like she’d drunk too much coffee, even though she tragically hasn’t had any because there’s been a shortage for weeks. She accidentally deletes two case files and it takes her ten minutes to figure out how to retrieve them. She calls Detective Moreno by the wrong name. She turns a corner and walks straight into a wall. 

Miller is twenty-five minutes late for work, as usual. “Are you _ever_ on time?” she growls at her partner, unable to look him directly in the eye. 

He takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his dark hair. “Come on, Muss. You know me…” 

She does, all too well. They’ve been partners for almost eight months. He’s a cranky shithead and at some point soon, she’s going to have to ask him to be her pretend boyfriend. It’s almost enough to make her puke her breakfast tacos. 

Miller slides into his holster and secures his weapon. “Ready, partner?” he asks. 

It will be a miracle if she doesn’t shoot him today. 

* 

After eight long hours of patrol in the Medina, they head back to HQ. Just before they go through the front door, Octavia decides it’s now or never. She’s going to have to ask him tonight or she’ll never get the nerve. Might as well get the humiliation over with. 

She turns to him and says in voice that’s deliberately casual, “Hey, want to grab a drink?” 

Miller seems taken aback. “A drink? You mean just you and me, Muss?” 

Making the shrugging sign with her hands she says, “Yeah, why the hell not? I could really use a drink.” They’ve gone out for drinks with a group of Star Helix officers several times but never, ever just the two of them. 

They end up at Takoyaki-ya, a quiet Japanese bar that features shochu and extraordinarily tasty octopus balls, even if the octopus is really made from wheat gluten. 

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. 

“Soba shochu on the rocks,” she says. She turns to Miller. “What are you drinking? It’s on me tonight.” 

“What’s the occasion, Muss?” 

“I need a favor, so drink up.” Octavia fights the urge to wince. 

“I’ll have the same,” Miller tells the bartender. 

She takes a long sip of her drink. Alcohol does wonders for courage. 

“So, you want to tell me about this favor?” Miller asks. 

“It’s a personal favor.” She realizes she’s stalling for time. 

His eyebrows rise. “Oh yeah? Sounds interesting.” 

Another sip, this one more of a gulp. “It’s kind of embarrassing.” As if in response, she feels her cheeks flush. Instead of looking at his face, she stares at the tank of fish across the room. 

The bar is so quiet that she can hear him set down his glass with a clink. “Even more interesting by the minute.” 

Fuck it, she thinks. Just get it out. One thing she knows about Miller, knows deep inside, is no matter how awfully this goes, he’s not the type who will spread it around Star Helix. It will remain their secret. Partner stuff stays with partners. 

She sits up straighter on the barstool, feeling her vertebrae crack. “It’s a long story, Miller,” she says. The fish, fat and orange, dart and dive in the tank. “but would you go to a wedding with me?” 

A low rumble emits from somewhere deep in this throat. “Wait, are you asking me on a date?” 

Octavia truly wants a supernatural force to strike her dead at this moment. She absolutely, positively cannot look at him. Her face must be beet red. She takes another swallow of the liquor. “Uh…not exactly. Not a _date_ date. My cousin’s getting married two weeks from Saturday and I just can’t handle another family wedding without a date. My family is kind of awful.” 

He chuckles, a sound she rarely hears. “Girl like you can’t find a date? That’s hard to believe.” 

A girl like _what_ , she thinks. Is he insinuating that she’s attractive, desirable? She can’t even handle the implications of that. “It’s not that I can’t find a date, I don’t _want_ to. Don’t want to deal with it right now. My divorce hasn’t even been final six months.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about that. Divorce is rough.” He clinks his glass against hers. 

“How long has it been for you?” They never talk about their personal lives but she figures tonight is as good as any time, what with her asking her partner to weddings and all. 

“Little over a year,” he says. 

“Yeah,” she says. “It is rough.” 

“Hit us with another round,” Miller says to the bartender. “This one’s on me.” 

“So,” she says, taking a deep breath. “The wedding? You willing to sacrifice a Saturday to spend in the bosom of your partner’s large and ridiculous family?” 

Miller smiles. He actually smiles, something he almost never does. Huh, she thinks. He has dimples. I never noticed that before. “Yeah, sure,” he says, hand-shrugging. “Why not? Don't have anything better to do.” 

“I’d say it’ll be fun but it probably won’t be fun. At least I can guarantee an open bar.” 

He clinks his glass against hers again. “Cheers to that.” Miller takes a long swallow. “There’s only one condition.” 

“What’s that?” 

“I don’t dance. _Ever.”_  

She laughs. The last thing she can imagine is Miller dancing. It’s just so wrong. 

“You got yourself a deal,” she tells her partner, holding out her hand so they can solemnly shake on it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Belter Creole Glossary** (words with asterisks are ones I’ve come up with myself):
> 
>  _*Papang_ : dad/daddy (derived from French)


	3. Chapter 3

Octavia is grateful for the fact that Miller doesn’t act any differently towards her after she’s asked him to the wedding. He’s just regular old Miller—late to work, greasing gangsters for petty bribes, failing to do his paperwork. She’d worried a little that he might give her shit about her pathetic situation, since he’s always giving her low-key shit about _something_ , but he avoids the subject. After a few days, she almost wonders if she actually did ask him. 

A week before the wedding he sidles up to her as she waits for her drink at Omar’s  _owkwakaka_ stand (the shipment has arrived!) in the morning before their shift starts. 

“Hey, Muss,” he says, his voice morning raspy. 

“What’s up?” She’s dreaming of a double cappuccino and the caffeine rush sure to follow. 

“So, this _sheenda_ next week…” 

“Yeah?” Her back stiffens. If he’s going to blow her off, she’ll murder him. Murder him dead with her service pistol and feel no remorse. Prison will be better than going to that wedding alone, anyhow. 

He leans in closer to her, his voice almost a whisper. “Is it a fancy thing? Like a wear a suit thing?” 

She almost laughs but manages to keep it inside. It’s just so funny, imagining Miller fretting about what to wear. “Yeah, it’s pretty fancy. Definitely wear a suit. And a tie.” 

Miller tips his head back and groans. “A _tie_? Who wears a tie?” 

Omar hands Octavia her cappuccino and she takes a long sip, even though it burns her tongue. Ah, so delicious. She offers Miller a sip and he shakes his head. 

“With my family, you wear a tie to a wedding. You’ve never seen such a bunch of _welwalas_ in your whole life. It’s going to be at the Green Club.” 

He purses his lips as if he’s the one having to hold in the laughter now. “I never took you for a rich girl, Muss.” 

She rolls her eyes. “There’s a _lot_ you don’t know about me, partner.” 

“Then I’m looking forward to next Saturday,” he says, grinning, and starts to walk away. 

“Miller?” she calls after him. 

He turns around. “Yeah?” 

“You’ve got to lose the hat. It’s not a hat crowd.” 

Miller nods sadly. “It never is, Muss. It never is.” 

*

The night before the wedding, Octavia has a dream where she’s making love. She’s with Faadi of course, but she doesn’t hate him in her dream. She’s on her hands and knees and he’s fucking her from behind. It feels good in a way that it’s never really been with him, slow and then fast and then slow again until she’s ready to pass out from the pleasure. “Faadi,” she gasps as her orgasm builds in her. “Oh God, Faadi. Don’t stop.” 

He stops. “That’s not my name,” he rasps. 

Wait. The man’s voice is familiar but it’s not Faadi’s voice. Who _is_ he? 

She collapses onto the mattress, confused thoughts whirling through her brain. 

The man rolls off her back and turns to her. For the first time she can see his face and it’s Miller’s. 

Miller. 

What the fuck. 

She’s in bed with Miller. How the _hell_ did this happen? She’s not sexually attracted to Miller. Never has been, never will be. He’s completely and utterly not her type. She likes her men stocky, muscular and swaggering. Miller is none of those things. 

But she finds herself reaching out and stroking his cheek, kissing his brow. “I forgot,” she hears herself say in apology. “I forgot you were here.” Tears begin welling in her eyes. 

Miller kisses her then and she kisses him back. She throws her leg over his hip and he’s inside her again, where he belongs. Yes, Miller, she thinks. Just like that. 

“ _Mi du ámolof to_ ,” he whispers in her ear. “Tavi, I love you.” 

That’s when she wakes up, sitting bolt upright in bed. 

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck_ was that, she silently screams to herself. Her heart is beating a kilometer a minute and her sleep shirt is soaked in sweat. 

She gets out of bed and paces the bedroom, her hands flailing in the air as if she’s having an argument with herself. It was just a dream, she tells herself. Dreams don’t mean anything. She’s had plenty of weird sex dreams before, like when she dreamed she was banging her high school physics teacher, who was short, bald and looked like he was five months pregnant. She hasn’t had sex in more than a year and her hormones are out of control. 

Mainly, she blames the wedding and mixing up her partner in her personal life. That’s why that particular line should never be crossed. 

She pours herself a glass of water in the kitchen and gulps it down. In the bathroom, she splashes her face with cold water. She changes into a clean and dry shirt. 

Back in bed, she rolls onto her side, whispering to herself: “It was a dream, a dream, it was only a dream,” over and over like a mantra until she falls into an uneasy sleep. 

* 

That late afternoon she has a fashion crisis so stereotypically female that she’s thoroughly disgusted with herself. Octavia stands in front of her closet, arms crossed on her chest, surveying her closet. She doesn’t have many dresses that are suitable for a family wedding. Being a cop, dresses aren’t a major part of her wardrobe. In fact, she only has three. 

The white dress is definitely out, because the bride will wear white, of course. The red dress is majorly hot but probably too provocative for the occasion and, again, it’s out because the bride will also wear red. If she knows Jyoti at all, Octavia knows that her cousin will wear a white dress for the ceremony and a red sari for the reception, and probably a couple of other dresses during the night, just because she can. 

That leaves the black dress, which she’s worn to a million weddings but that’s the beauty of little black dresses. They’re so elegantly forgettable that you can wear them over and over again and no one will really remember them. 

She steps into the dress and zips it up the back, surveys herself critically in the mirror. Not bad, she thinks. The dress is a sleeveless shift that ends just above her knees. It hugs her body but isn’t the kind of tight that will get the aunties clucking. Same with the v-shaped neckline—it dips low on her chest but not too low, showing just a hint of cleavage. With a nice necklace and some earrings, she’ll make it work for her. 

Octavia smirks at herself in the mirror. Push-up bra and the eight-centimeter red heels, she rebelliously thinks. Might as well give the ladies a fresh topic to gossip about. 

* 

Just before 18:00 she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Octavia spent a full hour wrestling her crazy hair with a flatiron and a curling iron until it finally submitted into soft waves. It feels weird wearing her hair down for a change, feeling it brush against her shoulders. She’s wearing enough makeup to satisfy her mother but not so much that she looks like one of the girls down at the Medina. She applies a last coat of lipstick to match her shoes and blots her lips on a tissue. 

Not bad, she thinks, allowing herself one last look in the bathroom mirror. Not bad at all. 

She hears knocking against the glass of her front door and her heart picks up speed. He’s here. 

Octavia grabs the shawl her parents gave her as a present once, dark red silk shot through with tiny black stripes, imported all the way from India. She drapes it over her shoulders, enjoying the sensation of the gossamer-light fabric falling on her skin. 

It’s time, she thinks. 

She starts walking to the door and then stops in her tracks as soon as she sees Miller on the other side. 

Oh my god, she thinks, the breath catching in her throat. 

She can’t believe what she sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Belter Creole Glossary** (words with asterisks are ones I’ve come up with myself):
> 
>  _Owkwakaka_ \- coffee (lit. “shit water”)
> 
>  _*Sheenda_ \- party/event (dervived from the English word “shindig”)
> 
>  _Mi du ámolof to_ \- I love you


	4. Chapter 4

At first, she thinks it’s a trick of the fading artificial sun of early evening. That’s how stunned Octavia is. Miller is…Miller is dressed up. He looks _good_. 

He’s wearing a navy blue suit that’s so new it practically smells like one of the nicer men’s stores in the Paseo Blanco or the Grand Concourse, a nicely tailored three-piece suit with a crisp gray shirt underneath and a tie with tiny navy and gray stripes. Most days, Miller looks like he slept in his shirt and trousers, slept on the couch and it was a restless night, to boot. Not today. Today he’s freshly clean-shaven and sporting a haircut. He’s lopped off the hank of hair that usually falls in his eyes when he’s not wearing a hat. His shoes gleam with polish. Miller looks as spit-shined as an MCRN vessel coming into port. 

He’s actually kind of handsome, she thinks, as she watches him into a grin at the sight of her. She notices his dimples emerge once again. 

She opens her door and he steps inside her apartment for the very first time. 

“Muss,” he says, his voice sounding deeper than usual. “You clean up good.” 

She finds herself smiling, too. Even if it’s just Miller, it’s nice to receive a compliment. “Thanks,” she says. 

He takes a step back and seems to critically appraise her, nodding to himself as if he approves. “Not bad,” he says, actually sounding stunned for a second. “Not bad at all.” 

“Same here,” she says. “New suit?” 

“Only the best for you, Muss.” 

She’s impressed and almost embarrassed that he did it for her, just to take her to her cousin’s wedding. That’s some serious commitment to a favor for a coworker. 

Octavia grabs her evening purse off a side table. “We should probably get going. If we’re late for the ceremony the consequences will be dire. Up to and including beatings and gravity torture.” 

He laughs. “Come on, partner,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

*

She splurges on a first-class Tube car to avoid harassment and the filth of the regular cars. The car is practically empty and is decently clean, with actual seats, which is a blessing when wearing high heels. 

Three stops before they need to get off, she turns to Miller. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” Time for embarrassment again. 

“Deep dark secrets again?” he says. 

“Yeah. I…um…kind of told my mother that you’re more than my date for the night.” 

“Oh really,” he says. “Who am I?” 

She nods grimly. “Told her that you’re my…my partner.” She wants to bury her face in her hands but that would probably just smear her makeup. 

“I _am_ your partner.” 

“No, not like that. My _partner_. You know, my boyfriend.” 

Miller looks like he’s trying to hold in his laughter and for a brief second she wants to punch him. Don’t even laugh, she silently warns him. You _wish_ you could get a woman like me. 

To his credit, he doesn’t laugh but she watches the dimples emerge. “Your boyfriend, eh?” 

“I know,” she says, sighing. “When you meet my mother you’ll understand. All she ever does is nag me about it. She thinks it’s a tragedy beyond comprehension that I don’t have a man.” 

He pokes her in the arm. “So, how long have we been together?” 

“I don’t know. Didn’t give it much thought.” 

“Muss,” he says, chuckling. “You’ve worked undercover details before. You need a credible backstory if you want this scheme of yours to succeed.”

“Oh god. This is so weird,” she says, cringing. 

“What do you think? Six months?” His voice is teasing. 

“That’s too long. She’d be upset that I hadn’t told her sooner.” 

“Four months then,” Miller says. 

“Two,” she says. She feels like she’s bargaining over bootleg vids in the Medina. 

He leans in closer and she can smell shaving cream. “Are we in love?” 

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Are we _in love_?” she repeats. The idea of being in love with Miller, it’s conceptually the strangest thing ever. “Uh, sure. Yeah, we’re crazy in love, Miller. Moonlit walks and roses and boxes of chocolates.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one going around telling my family that we’re in a relationship.” He elbows her in the ribs. “I’m just getting you to solidify your undercover case.” 

She elbows him back. “Shut up, Miller.” 

“Never, Muss.” He rubs his chin, whisker-free for a change. “Just to get your story straight, do we live together? What do I eat for breakfast? How often do we have sex?” 

He’s never going to stop giving her crap about this, is he? “No, we don’t live together. Nice Muss girls don’t live with their boyfriends. You don’t ever eat breakfast and, to answer your last question, none of your business.” 

Miller laughs almost all the way to their stop.

* 

The Green Club is on the top level of the station, which means money, lots and lots of money. So much money that her parents aren’t even members, much to her mother’s constant dismay. It overlooks a nine-hole golf course with real grass, one of the biggest wastes of water resources on the station, which never fails to irritate Octavia. 

Once they get through security, a man in one of those old-style tuxedos points them towards one of the reception rooms, where the ceremony will be held. Just before they walk inside, Octavia stills Miller with her hand. “I have one more thing to tell you,” she whispers in his ear. 

“Let me guess—you’re pregnant with our child?” he whispers back. “No, wait, it’s twins.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. From here on, I’m going to have to call you Joe,” she says. His first name sounds strange coming from her mouth. “And you need to call me Tavi.” 

“Tavi?” he says. “Huh. Never figured you for a Tavi.” 

“Yeah, Tavi. Everyone who loves me calls me Tavi.” 

His shoulders shake with hidden laugher. “Okay, _Taaaavi_. Let’s go inside.” 

He offers his arm to her and they walk in together like the fake couple they are. 

The room is huge and draped in gauzy white fabric, with flowers covering every possible surface. She wrinkles her nose at the mostly unfamiliar floral scent. It makes her feel vaguely nauseated, not just at the scent but the immense cost of so many flowers, in many ways the most precious and expensive resource on Ceres. 

There have to be more than a thousand guests. She spots her parents sitting in the third row but luckily the seats are almost all taken and she and Miller have to sit in one of the back rows. Good, they won’t have to deal with her mother until after the ceremony. 

Everyone suddenly stands for the bride, and there she is, Jyoti walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, looking pretty and flushed in a white dress that has so many tiers and layers and bows and pearls that she looks a bit like a wedding cake itself. 

The wedding ceremony, which somehow manages to include a Catholic priest, a Hindu pandit, a Buddhist monk, a choir of little children dressed as angels, a solo by popstar Jessica Sui, and six fire dancers, is interminable. Octavia is reminded of why she eloped with Faadi instead of submitting herself to one of these production numbers. Her mother barely spoke to her until six months later, when Leyla got engaged and declared she wanted a big wedding. 

As the bride and groom finally kiss under an arch of white roses, a pair of cybernetic doves circles over their heads while the choir of young angels sings hallelujah and white confetti shoots into the air. Octavia wants to fall over with laughter and almost does, but Miller squeezes her arm. Hard. “Behave,” he whispers. 

As soon as the ceremony is finally over, she stands and grabs Miller by the arm. “Come on,” she hisses. “If we hurry we can get to the bar first.” 

She’s going to need a stiff drink for what’s next. 

* 

The reception room is vast, with huge windows overlooking the golf course and floors that she knows to be real wood. At the far end of the room is a long bar, staffed with bartenders in crisp black uniforms. Octavia practically runs to it.

“Lagavulin on the rocks,” she orders. 

“I’ll take a FizzClear,” Miller tells the bartender. 

“You’re ordering _water_?” she says incredulously. “Everything they’re serving comes straight from down the well. Enjoy yourself.” 

“I need to keep a clear head tonight,” he says. The bartender hands him a tall glass of the bubbling water and Miller takes a long sip. 

Octavia shakes her head. She would have guessed that he’d act like a kid loose at a candy stall with an open bar stocked with imports. 

She’s just taken her first sip of her drink when she hears, “Betiiiiii!” Her stomach contracts into a hard ball. 

It’s her mother. Fuck. 

Octavia’s mother is decked out in a glittering blue sari, her hair piled on top of her head and studded with sapphire and gold pins. Her father stands back in his wife’s wake, with his usual bemused grin on his plump face. His once sandy brown beard is almost completely gray. My father is getting old, she thinks with a sudden pang.

“Tavi!” her mother cries and covers her daughter’s cheeks in kisses. Her father hugs and kisses her too. 

“Mamang, Papang, this is my boyfriend, Joe Miller,” she says, praying for forgiveness for such a terrible lie. “Joe, meet my parents, Anjali Iyer and Matheus Muss.” 

Her father shakes heartily hands with Miller and her mother kisses Miller on both cheeks, leaving pink lipstick marks. 

“Nice to meet you both,” Miller says in an unusually affable tone. She can tell he’s resisting the urge to wipe the lipstick off his face.

“We’ve been waiting for this day, to meet the man who has rescued our girl from her lonely state!” her mother says and Octavia wants to die, right then and there. 

“Now, now, Anjali,” her father says, patting his wife’s arm. Her father is always the voice of reason in the family. 

Miller smiles. “I think it’s more the other way around, Ms. Iyer. Tavi’s the one who rescued _me_.” 

Oh, he’s good at this. Very, very good at this. 

She takes a deep breath. It’s going to work out, Octavia thinks. Miller is the best liar she’s ever met.


	5. Chapter 5

After meeting approximately two hundred aunties, uncles, cousins, and various people Octavia thinks may be relatives but isn’t entirely sure about, poor Miller’s eyes take on a certain haunted quality. At one point, he leans over and whispers, “You weren’t kidding about your family.” 

“I warned you,” she says. 

“This is one of those times I’m glad I’m an orphan,” he says, shaking his head. 

Octavia didn’t know that he was an orphan but it explains a lot about Miller, the proverbial chip on his shoulder, his air of complete self-sufficiency. She may complain about her family, and she complains about them a _lot_ , but as annoying and meddlesome as they can be, her family represents security and support. When she’s sick, her mother can be counted on to bring her soup. After Faadi left her, Leyla slept over at Octavia’s apartment for three nights to comfort her. Papang sometimes takes her out for lunch, just the two of them, so they can talk books and politics without her mother’s interference. 

At dinner, they’re seated with her parents, Leyla and Yuri, as if she doesn’t see them all the time. Octavia is grateful for the waiters who keep coming around and filling her wine glass. She’s had a lot to drink already—two scotches, a glass of champagne, and now two glasses of wine—but she doesn’t feel drunk at all. It’s the adrenaline of lying her ass off, she reflects. 

The men start talking about football, dissecting every detail of last year’s Belt Championship and debating the potential outcome of this year’s. Thank god for sports, Octavia thinks, half-listening to them, and half-listening to her mother and Leyla gossip about the latest family scandal, a third cousin who was arrested for dealing hypnotics. 

Leyla looks gorgeous as usual. Honestly, Leyla would look beautiful digging a ditch. She’s flouted convention and is wearing a red strapless dress that shows off her olive skin and enviable bust. Her dark, straight hair is swept up into a tight bun that emphasizes her high cheekbones. Tonight Leyla is prettier than the bride. Normally a thought like that would throw Octavia into a tailspin of vestigial sibling envy but she finds she doesn’t much care. She feels plenty beautiful herself tonight, for some unknown reason. 

Just after the main course is served, Mamang decides to take it up a notch. “Joe,” she purrs, “I want to know all about you, darling boy. Tell me about your family. What do your parents do?” 

Here it comes, Octavia thinks, slugging down more wine. Next, her mother will be demanding Miller’s tax returns and a credit report. 

She watches a fleeting grimace pass on Miller’s face. “I don’t have a family,” he says, in a neutral tone. “I was orphaned at four. My parents both died in the Haden mine explosion.” 

Octavia stifles a gasp. Everyone knows about that awful tragedy; over two hundred Belter miners died that day, one of the worst mine accidents in Ceres history. 

“That’s terrible. Workplace safety on this station is a travesty,” Yuri says. 

“It’s all right,” Miller says, shrugging his hands. “I don’t remember them. Not really.” 

Leyla asks, “What happened to you after that?” 

“Got taken into station care.” 

Her mother smiles and reaches across the table to pat Miller’s hand. “Well, you’re certainly made something of yourself despite all that, Joe. You should be very proud of yourself.” 

Octavia’s hand tightens around her knife and she has the resist the overwhelming urge to stab her mother with it. Could she _be_ more patronizing? 

As if he can read her mind, Miller kicks her under the table. 

“Life goes on,” Miller says pleasantly. 

“Do tell us,” Mamang says, setting down her glass of wine. “When did you first know you were in love with Tavi?” 

This is getting better and better all the time. She’s going to owe Miller drinks at the bar for eternity. 

He smiles. “I don’t know,” he says. 

Of course he doesn’t, she thinks, because he never has. She wonders what tale he’ll spin next. 

Miller tilts his head a bit as if he’s really thinking about it. “I guess,” he finally says, “it was a couple weeks after we became partners at work. One night we went to serve a warrant on some drug dealer. As soon as the guy opened the door he pulled a gun on us. Before I knew what had happened, Tavi kicked the _coyo_ in the chest, disarmed him and pinned him to the floor.” 

Octavia remembers that night, recalls the sudden adrenaline rush that spun her into action without thinking about it. It was a risky move but it had worked. She’s surprised Miller remembers it. 

“And _that_ made you fall for her?” Mamang asks, her face all astonishment. Octavia knows that her mother was expecting something more traditionally romantic. 

Miller chuckles. “Yeah. I learned how brave she is. I like brave women.” 

She feels a blush creeping up her neck. Could he be telling the truth? That he fell for her on that day so long ago? 

No, she decides. Miller’s just an excellent storyteller. As if to confirm this, Miller squeezes her knee under the table and shoots her a look that seems to say, “Excuse me while I feed your mother this _kaka felota_.” 

“And that was it for you?” Leyla asks. 

“That was it,” he says. “I just had to wait and see if she felt the same way.” 

Octavia has to work hard not to laugh at this outrageous falsehood. 

Leyla smiles dreamily. She loves romantic stories. “When did you feel the same way, Tavi?” 

“Mmm…hard to say,” Octavia says. Hard to say is right. “It was just a feeling, small at first, that grew and grew until I knew it was definitely love.” 

Her mother and Leyla smile in delight. 

“Isn’t love grand?” her mother asks rhetorically. 

“It sure is,” Octavia says and drains what’s left of her wine. 

“I’ll drink to that,” her father says, and lifts his wineglass. 

“To true love,” Miller says, toasting. 

She kicks him under the table with all her might. 

* 

The wedding cake is so huge, twelve tiers dripping with icing flowers and ribbons, that the bride and groom have to stand on stools to cut it. Spotlights flash and everyone claps as they finally slide the knife into the top tier. 

As soon as they’ve eaten their cake, they head for the ballroom, where her Uncle Reginald buttonholes Miller and starts talking at him about cricket, a game that Octavia knows Miller despises. But there’s no stopping her uncle once he gets started, so she wanders off to the side of the room. 

“And now, the bride and groom, Jyoti and Damien, will enjoy their first dance as a married couple!” the emcee screams into the microphone. 

Stage curtains part to reveal a seventeen-piece orchestra. It’s one of those groups that plays that ancient big band music that’s become trendy among a certain set in the past few years. 

As soon as the music starts, Jyoti and her groom float onto the dancefloor. Just as Octavia had predicted, Jyoti has changed from the red wedding sari she wore during dinner and is now in a pink dress that shows off her long legs. The bride and groom move in perfect syncopation to the music, no doubt the result of weeks of pre-wedding dance lessons. 

Octavia is so engrossed in watching the couple dance in a bright spotlight that she starts a little when she feels a soft arm touching hers. 

“Nice, aren’t they?” Leyla asks, smiling. 

“Yeah, they are.” 

“I like your Joe, _ses_.” 

“Thanks,” Octavia says. 

“I can tell he’s really in love with you,” Leyla says. “The way he looks at you—it’s all over his face.” 

Octavia nods, feeling vaguely ashamed. This lying business is starting to get old. 

Leyla points in the general direction of where her uncle is still boring the trousers off poor Miller. “Look at him. He’s pretending to listen to Uncle Reggie, but he keeps glancing over at you, like he can’t take his eyes off you.” 

Octavia looks and sure enough, Miller slightly turns his head towards her as if he’s on duty and staking out a suspect. Their eyes meet for just a second and then Miller looks away. 

She can’t take it anymore. “Don’t tell Mamang,” she says to Leyla, “but Joe isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just my partner at work. I had to beg him to come as my date.” 

Leyla breaks out in laughter. “Did you do it just to get Mamang to stop harassing you?” 

“Of course.” 

“I don’t blame you one bit.” Leyla shakes her head. “Mamang has issues. A woman isn’t anything unless she has a man. Preferably a man with money.” 

“Tell me about it,” Octavia says. She flags a passing waiter and snags a glass of champagne off his tray. 

“I hate it,” Leyla says, practically spitting out her words. “I hate how she’s constantly bragging about how I did such a good job marrying Yuri because he’s rich. Like I’m some kind of gold-digger. Tavi, I _love_ him. I would have married him if he was just a lower-level guy who worked the docks.” 

Octavia pats her sister’s arm. “I know you would have.” 

Leyla is working herself up to a rant. “And that’s all she cares about. She never asks me about work, never acknowledges that I have a successful career. I work hard, too. No, the only important thing is that I have a pretty face and I married a wealthy man.” 

“At least you have the pretty face,” Octavia says. 

“Shut up, Tavi. You’re beautiful, too. Especially tonight. You're glowing.” 

She kisses her sister on the cheek. “Thanks, Leyla.” 

“Oh, and I stand by what I said,” Leyla says. “You and Joe may not be a couple but he’s got it _bad_ for you.” 

“He does not,” Octavia says. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

“ _That_ is the face of a man in love,” Leyla says smugly. 

“No, he’s just really good at pretending to be my boyfriend. You should see him undercover.” 

Leyla purses her lips. “Whatever, Tavi.”

Octavia spots Miller, free at last from her uncle’s clutches, walking across the room to her. 

“I’m out of here,” Leyla whispers in Octavia’s ear. “I’ll leave you to your man.” 

“Bitch,” she hisses at her sister. 

“And you love it,” Leyla says with a laugh and walks away. 

“How’re you doing, Muss?” Miller says. “I mean, _Tavi_.” He’s taken his jacket off, loosened the tie a bit and now he’s starting to look more like the Miller she knows. 

“I’m glad there’s champagne,” she says. 

The bride and groom leave the dancefloor to thunderous applause. The band strikes up something slow and jazzy. “It had to be you,” the vocalist, a tall, skinny guy in a baggy suit, sings. 

Miller falls silent and she wonders if he’s sinking into one of his funks. He stares at the couples now crowding the dancefloor, his mouth turned down in a frown. Maybe this is a good time to leave, she thinks, before he reverts from this unusually good behavior into his true asshole self. 

“For nobody else gave me a thrill. With all your faults, I love you still,” croons the singer. 

Miller suddenly turns to her. “So, Tavi…” he says and trails off. 

Yep. Definitely time to go. 

He holds his hand out to her. “You want to dance?”

 “You said you don’t dance, Miller.” 

“I don’t,” he says. “But this is an exception. I’m doing this for _you_. Your mother will love it.” 

The man has a point but even so. “You don’t have to.” 

“Okay, maybe I want to,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

This is the precise moment when she starts to wonder if something more is going on than acting, even if she brushes that thought away immediately because there’s no way it can be true. 

“Fine,” she says, taking his warm hand in hers. “Let’s dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to "It Had to Be You" are by Gus Kahn but are best interpreted by Frank Sinatra. 
> 
>  **Belter Creole Glossary:**  
> 
>  _Coyo_ \- guy, person
> 
>  _Kaka felota_ \- bullshit (lit. "floating shit")
> 
>  _Ses_ \- sister


	6. Chapter 6

_Fly me to the moon_  
_Let me play among the stars_  
_Let me see what spring is like_  
_On Jupiter and Mars_  
_In other words, hold my hand_  
_In other words, baby, kiss me_    


Dancing with Miller is an awkward business at first. He holds her almost at arm’s length and they step on each other’s toes at every opportunity. Octavia has only slow-danced twice, once with her father at Leyla’s wedding and once with Faadi that same night. 

After a few minutes, though, they find their imperfect rhythm. Miller no longer looks like he’s concentrating with all his might on each step. The steps have found _him_ , she thinks. There’s nothing much to it, really. It’s just shuffling and swaying to the beat. 

“You can dance,” she says. 

“Beginner’s luck,” Miller says. “You’re a good dancer, too.” 

She grins. “Because you’ve been a very, very good boy, I’ll tell you a secret. When I was twenty, I was a cage dancer at a _teknobang_. Youthful rebellion.” 

His eyebrows rise and he stumbles on her foot. “Oh, really. One of the naked ones?” 

Octavia mock punches his shoulder. “No! My mother would have skinned me alive if she’d found out. I wore a costume, although it was pretty skimpy.” 

Miller laughs. “That must’ve been something to see.” 

As the song goes on, she finds that they’ve moved closer and closer to each other until their bodies are touching. Her hands are on his shoulders and she can feel the muscles move under the thin fabric of his shirt. Miller’s arms shift to encircle her waist and bring her in closer. With her high heels, she’s almost as tall as Miller and as they dance together her cheek brushes against his, warm and just beginning to bristle with whiskers. 

The band finishes their song and strikes up another but they don’t even notice. They just keep on dancing. 

Octavia closes her eyes, breathing in his scent of laundry soap, shaving cream, and just under those top notes, something masculine. It seems like the gravity of the room has been halved and they’re now floating just above the dancefloor. I forgot how this feels, she thinks. I forgot how it feels to have someone hold me like this. 

On one level, she’s all too aware that this is Miller who is holding her and moving with her to the music. Miller, her partner, her platonic partner, for whom she has never harbored any secret feelings of love or attraction. On another, she doesn’t care because it feels so lovely. On a third, something is prickling at the base of Octavia’s neck, something that’s demanding her attention. She chooses to ignore that third level and enjoy the moment. 

Miller’s arms clutch her tighter. “This is nice,” she hears him mutter, as if he’s somewhere far off in the distance. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, her voice sounding strangely breathless to her ears. 

For one second, she imagines what it would be like to kiss him, to feel Miller’s lips. She imagines him tasting like the single Scotch he’s been nursing for most of the night. Octavia pictures tipping her head back so he can kiss her neck and run his tongue from her jaw to her collarbone. 

Stop, she orders her brain. You’re being ridiculous. This isn’t real. None of this is. 

The song ends and the singer announces, “We’re going to take a little break but we’ll be back with more swinging tunes for you.” 

Octavia and Miller immediately separate. She finds she doesn’t know quite what to say to him. 

“Thanks for the dance, partner,” he says. 

“Uh, yeah, that was great,” she stammers. “I need to go to the bathroom.” 

She flees the dancefloor like a thief in the night. 

* 

Octavia comes to her senses while sitting on the toilet. There’s nothing like a good pee to bring you back to reality, she thinks. 

She washes her hands and tries to do something about her hair, which is turning kinky again. Her cheeks are unnaturally red, as if she’s running a low-grade fever. She finds a compact in her bag and blots at her shiny nose. 

The door swings open and Mamang strides in, as if on a mission. _Pashang_. Just her luck. 

“Tavi!” she exclaims in delight. “You and Joe were quite a lovely sight dancing together!” 

Octavia grimaces. “I’m sure we were.” 

Mamang applies the fuchsia lipstick she’s so fond of and blots her lips. “Do you think we’ll be hearing wedding bells for you two kids soon?”

She suddenly remembers something Miller had said at dinner about brave women. She may be able to beat the _kaka_ out of drug dealers and petty gangsters but when it comes to her mother, she’s a terrible coward. It’s time to stand up for herself. 

“Mamang,” she says, her voice steady and firm. “Joe and I aren’t a couple. He’s pretending to be my boyfriend.” 

There, she said it and it feels good. 

Mamang’s mouth opens in shock. “ _Octavia Elizabeth_! Did you _lie_ to me?” 

Octavia nods. “Yes. But only because you won’t ever get off my back about having a man.” 

“I only want you to be happy, my darling,” her mother says. 

“Then let me do what I think is best,” she says, tucking the compact in her purse. She turns to face her mother. “I’m a grown woman, Mamang. It’s time you realized that.” 

“Tavi—” her mother starts to say but Octavia isn’t having any of it. She stomps out of the bathroom without looking back at her mother, her heels clicking on the marble floor. 

Just opposite the door, Miller is leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking as deliberately casual as a cop on a stakeout, but as soon as he notices her he stands up straight. “You okay?” he asks. Her confrontation with her mother must be all over her face. 

“Yeah,” she says. “But let’s get the hell out of here.” 

* 

On the train home, another first-class car, she tells Miller about how she fessed up to her mother. 

“It’s about time you did that,” he comments. 

“Yeah,” she says, sighing. “She’s the only person who can turn me into a coward.” 

Then they fall silent, passing back and forth a tall bottle of lime FizzClear that Miller smuggled out of the club in his jacket. She’s grateful for this, since she can feel the hangover creeping into her body, just the hint of a headache. 

It’s a long ride back to her neighborhood, almost forty-five minutes. The rocking of the car and the quiet lull her into a light doze, her head sagging against the wall of the train. She feels like she’s on a fast ship to Mars, rocketing through dark space. 

Unknown minutes later, her eyes flutter open and she feels something heavy on her hand, which is resting on her thigh. She lifts her head from the wall and looks down. Miller’s white hand is lying on hers, so much larger that it nearly obscures her own hand, smaller and darker. She glances over at him and his head is resting on the back of the seat, his eyes closed. 

Octavia doesn’t want to wake him so she lets his hand stay on top of her own, until they reach her station. 

* 

Miller insists on walking her directly to her door even though he lives several blocks in the opposite direction. 

“You don’t have to,” she says. 

“I’m a full-service wedding date,” he says, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. 

As they make their way down the street, crowded with Saturday night drinkers, something feels off to her, not quite right. Just before they reach her building, Octavia realizes it’s because Miller isn’t wearing his hat. She walks with him almost every day and has accustomed herself to keeping up with his long legs but it feels wrong to have him walk by her side without that stupid hat. 

“You should have worn it,” she says. 

“Worn what?” 

“Your hat,” she says. “You’re not _you_ without it.” 

Miller chuckles. “I knew you’d come around on the hat.” 

They arrive at the building and climb the stairs to her landing. Octavia stops and turns to him. “I can’t thank you enough. You went above and beyond the call of duty, partner.” 

Miller’s hands shrug. “It was actually fun. I even kind of liked your mother.” 

“You’re _kidding_ me.” 

“No. Your mother’s a pain in the ass but she loves you. You’re lucky.” 

She nods, remembering how he doesn’t have a family. “Well, good night, _Joe_.” 

“Good night, Tavi,” he says and starts to walk toward the stairs. At the last second, he turns around and asks, “Can your fake date have a fake goodnight kiss?” 

Octavia smiles. “I suppose it’s how this pretend night should end,” she says. 

Miller walks toward her and she suddenly experiences a moment of free-floating panic. He’s going to kiss me, she thinks. 

He leans in and pulls her to him. For a moment, she imagines she can feel his heart beating under his vest. The kiss is quick, just a mere brush of his lips against hers, so brief she doesn’t have time to fully register it. 

Miller grins, shrugging into his jacket. “Good night, Muss.” 

“Night, Miller,” she says and watches as he walks down the stairs. Normality has been restored. They’re back to last names again. 

Still, she stands on the landing for a long time, her hand on her lips, which feel like they’re buzzing. 

He kissed me, she thinks. But it wasn’t real. None of it was. 

Her mind flashes back to the wedding, about how Miller bought a brand-new suit, how he hardly drank all night, how he was pleasant to her mother, of all people. She remembers him telling the story of how he supposedly fell for her and what Leyla said about Miller looking at her. Most of all, she remembers dancing with him and how it felt to be in his arms, moving with him to the music. 

She remembers the kiss, so brief yet still sweet. He kissed me, she thinks again. He didn’t have to. 

Octavia feels like she can hardly breathe. Everything is clicking into place now, all the little pieces she refused to put together all night. Miller likes her. He wants her. He might even love her. 

Something warm starts spreading in her chest, a sensation she hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

You idiot, she tells herself. You feel it, too. Stop pretending you don’t. You’ve lied enough tonight. 

Be brave.

Run, her brain orders her. _Find him_. 

Octavia tears down three flights of stairs. On the bottom step, she stumbles and almost falls straight to the asphalt. She can feel that she broke the heel of her left shoe so she takes both of them off and flings them, nearly hitting a drunk man weaving by her. 

Which way, she frantically thinks. In what direction does he live? Why can’t she remember? 

Two blocks past the Tube station, something deep inside informs her. _Run_. 

Barefoot, she streaks down the street, just barely managing to avoid crashing into several people. He couldn’t have gone far, she thinks. Where _is_ he? 

She spots him after she’s ran two blocks, slowly making his way through the crowd. 

“Miller,” she yells at the top of her lungs. “Miller!” 

He doesn’t seem to hear her. 

Octavia keeps running. “Miller! Miller, _stop_!” But the bastard keeps on walking. 

One last try, she thinks. If it doesn't work, it wasn't meant to be. “Joe!” she shouts. 

He stops walking and turns in her direction. As soon as he spots her, he smiles. 

Octavia slows to a walk. The soles of her feet are smoldering from running on the pavement barefoot. She has tunnel vision—she can’t see anyone else but Miller standing in the middle of the street, waiting for her. She's propelled by a force much greater than herself, walking to him. She finally reaches Miller and flings herself into his arms, her head pressing against his shoulder. 

“Something wrong?” Miller murmurs into her hair. 

“No,” Octavia says, trying to catch her breath. “Nothing’s wrong at all.” 

She wriggles out of his arms, rises on the balls of her burning feet and kisses him. This time it’s a long kiss, explosive but still sweet. Her entire body stiffens as his tongue twines with hers and his hands grasp her at the back of her neck to pull her deeper into the kiss. Miller’s lips are full and soft and he kisses better than she ever could have imagined. 

This is it, she thinks. He’s the one I was waiting for, even if I refused to see it. 

Miller pulls his mouth away from hers, his face astonished. “What was _that_ , Tavi?” he says, his hand on her cheek. 

“That was real, Joe,” she says and kisses him again.

*

Octavia doesn’t remember how they got from the street to her bedroom. Maybe they walked, maybe they ran. 

She doesn’t recall if she took her clothes off or if Joe undressed her. She can only summon up blurred imagines of the first time they touched skin to skin, the way tears sprang into her eyes when he finally came into her, flashes of pleasure and sweet awkwardness and that sensation in her chest she’s still having trouble fully naming. Afterwards, they started laughing because it was all so strange and new and beautiful and weird. 

All she knows is that they’re in her bed, facing each other on their sides, wearing not a stitch of clothing and she just can’t believe they somehow got to this place. To tell the truth, Octavia isn’t sure how any of this happened, how her partner became her lover in just one night, but here he is and she can’t stop kissing him—his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his neck. He already smells and tastes like home, like he’s always belonged to her but she just didn’t know it until tonight. 

“Was it true?” she asks, her fingers smoothing the rough grain of his jaw. 

His eyes are closed and he looks a little like he’s dreaming, every muscle in his face relaxed. “Was what true?” 

“What you told my mother. That you fell for me the night I took down the dealer.” 

“I don’t know,” he says, opening his brown eyes to look into hers. “Maybe? Probably? I know I suddenly saw you as the kind of woman I _could_ care about. I saw the potential.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

“Tavi,” he says and a thrill courses through her. “You know that wouldn’t have gone well. We barely knew each other. Didn’t trust each other yet. You thought I was a dickhead. I _was_ a dickhead, most of the time.” 

It’s too much, so many emotions rushing into her all at once. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time. This night has definitely taken a turn for the unexpected, she thinks. 

“What would you have done if I hadn’t asked you to the wedding?” 

His lips quirk into a crooked smile. “Probably would’ve kept biding my time. Maybe forever.” 

“For the first time in my life I’m grateful for my mother’s interference,” she says. 

“Your mother is a real piece of work, but she means well.” 

“I just…” she says, at a loss for words for once. “I didn’t know it could be like this. That _you_ could be like this.” 

His voice is low and serious. “Tavi, I’m not going to be able to act like I did tonight forever. At least, not all the time. A lot of the time I’m an asshole and you know it.” 

“An asshole with a heart of gold,” she says dreamily as his large hand strokes her ass. 

“Maybe,” he says cautiously. “I’m going to try because…” His voice trails off. 

“Because _what_ , Joe?” She kisses his muscled shoulder. 

“Because now that I have you, I don’t want to lose you, Tavi.” 

“You won’t,” she promises. She kisses him, her tongue sliding in his mouth to meet his. Desire blooms again in her body, a steady electric current through her limbs. Her hand finds his cock, hard again, and strokes it until he throws back his head and groans. 

She needs to feel him inside her again, needs to be joined with him. She guides him into her, where she’s wet and ready for him. 

This is just like her dream. 

Just like my dream, she thinks, but it’s much better this time because it’s real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to "Fly Me to the Moon" are by Bart Howard.
> 
> I can't properly thank Mai and Katie enough for their advice, feedback, support and cheerleading during the writing of this fic so I'll just say that this story belongs entirely to them.
> 
>  **Belter Creole Glossary** (words with asterisks are ones I’ve come up with myself):
> 
>  _*Teknobang_ \- dance club (dervived from the English word _techno_ and the Korean word _bang_ , which means room)
> 
>  _Pashang_ \- expletive roughly equivalent to _fuck_
> 
>  _Kaka_ \- shit


End file.
